


Ordǣl

by ImperialMint



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialMint/pseuds/ImperialMint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a story that Arthur Pendragon carried with him until the day he died. It was the story of a boy who chose to use his own magic against himself than let Uther’s men slaughter him where he stood. Now, years later, Arthur comes face-to-face with that very same boy, now a man, who is Arthur’s guide to finding the remaining three treasures of Britain and uniting the land of Albion from the deadly war she has sunk into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordǣl

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mention of sort-of-suicide, violence, war-scenario and mentioned torture, main character temporary death (think end of Pan’s Labyrinth, but happy A/M ending for them).
> 
> Film Prompt: Pan’s Labyrinth
> 
> Written for 2011 reel_merlin

There was a story Arthur Pendragon carried with him until the day he died.

It started with Morgana; still too young to have discovered dresses and told she needed to follow propriety; before she was bartered off in marriage and sent to wither under the hand of a stern Lord; with her hands covered in dirt and a smear of mud on her cheek. Her hair, Arthur recalled if he pushed hard enough, had been a mess of knots and wildflowers, a garland someone had made for the fair lady, crowning her queen of the fairies.

(Except it couldn’t have been fairies, Arthur realised later, because fairies were magic and magic was banned in Camelot. In fact, the flowers were probably something added by Arthur’s mind instead, fabricated to paint a nicer, better picture of the fierce woman Morgana had become.)

Regardless of flowers, Morgana was the one who had snuck up to Arthur’s side, grin dimpling her cheeks.

“You know what they’re saying?” she’d whispered, as if she knew the biggest secret in the world. That was impossible, Arthur had thought, for he knew what the biggest secret was: magic never used to be banned.

“No,” Arthur had said, returning to the book he’d been studying. It was boring, a history of Camelot, but it was better than Morgana’s gossip. She knew the best places in the castle to hide for information and she used her skill viciously, cornering maids with illicit lovers to do her bidding and kitchen boys with too-loose tongues to sneak her extra food. She was resourceful, which in hindsight had been her downfall.

“They caught a warlock,” she announced proudly, puffing out her chest like a bird proving its worth. “Cenred’s land, just beyond the Ridge.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed as Arthur’s hands became clammy around his book. A warlock was the greatest enemy anyone could face and to kill one placed your name up with those who slew a dragon by themselves.

“Who did it?” Arthur demanded, letting the book fall into the dusty grass at his feet, brows furrowing into a scowl. He wasn’t old enough to be knighted yet, but he’d been a squire for almost two years now. He had to be going out soon, and when he did, he’d tackle a warlock or a dragon on his own, bring glory back for Camelot and hear his people cheer for him.

“That’s the thing,” Morgana said, smirking. “He done himself in, didn’t he?” She shrugged, giving a small snort of laughter.

Shaking his head, Arthur asked, “what do you mean done himself in? You don’t make sense.”

“Says he burnt down the whole village instead. Killed himself and everyone in it, one moment the village is there all perfect like and the next… bang.” Morgana’s court-bred accent had slipped, revealing exactly how much time she spent with scullery maids and butcher’s boys. “Whole village is in flames, everyone dead. The knights are lucky they got on their horses first sign of trouble, see. They watched the whole thing.”

She was still smiling, a chilling thing that twisted her entire face. Arthur would remember that smile when he was older, the one time he saw Morgana after her wedding. She had her husband trapped around her, ensnared into thinking he was the one in control when really Morgana was the one in charge.

(The news of Lord Urien’s poisoning was tragic to Court, just before they marched, but all Arthur could think about was the wicked, red lips and white teeth caught up in that everlasting-smirk, and knew that Morgana would be playing the grieving widow for all she could.)

“It’s a ghost village now,” she had proclaimed gleefully, waving her arms about. “You go near it and the warlock will get you, possess you and trap you. He’ll cling until there’s nothing left but fodder for the rats!” She laughed at that, crinkling her nose.

“There’s no such thing,” Arthur had shouted back, snatching his history book up from the ground in a temper and marching back to the castle.

That night, his dreams were haunted by a boy, not much younger than himself, trapped amongst a burning village and paralysed with fear. Arthur felt the pain and the sorrow, and remembered a small village just beyond the Ridge that had burnt down because of a child’s pain of being hunted.

  
**.**   


The taste of sweat and blood mingled in Arthur's mouth as he threw his sword down on the ground, ignoring the bark of reprimand his father gave at the action. Around him, enemies and comrades alike lay slain, blood oozing into the ground as the carrion crows swooped down, taking their pick. In the past they would have been shooed from the corpses, the dead on their side collected and buried, but this war had changed everything.

The war had started a year after the news of Lord Urien’s death swept the land. Condolences to his widow – Morgana, Arthur’s sister despite the loss of contact over the years – had been made and Uther had prepared a retinue, fronted by Arthur himself, to travel to Urien’s castle.

At the last minute, due to winter sickness, Arthur had had to pull out, but instead of rearranging the scheduled trip, Uther had told the knights to go on. A week passed before a sole knight returned, or rather what was left of him. His head had been in an ornate box, his body lying somewhere – a ditch for all Camelot knew – and it had sparked this bloody war.

Information eventually reached their ears that Morgana had joined forces with Morgause and Cenred, sticklers for magic and determined to free the land from Uther’s tyranny. Naturally, the king refused to bow to Morgana’s whim and had declared war, a war greater than that on magic alone, and the entire kingdoms of Albion were split, death crowding the land.

“Arthur,” a voice snapped; Uther striding from the safety of his tent’s shadow. “With me,” he barked, heading for the war tent, the only part of the war Uther saw aside from the carnage afterwards. Arthur swallowed until the bitter taste in his mouth died down and followed his father.

The tent, when they pushed the flap back, was in uproar again, as it was every time a battle was over (not won, not lost, just over). Lords and noblemen of all kinds were arguing, scraps of paper strewn across the planning table. Arthur shot a glance to his father, noticing the flush of anger creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“That is enough!” he barked sharply and the tent quietened, men settling down like children under their mother. “I want injury reports and the number of dead.” There was a pause. “Now!”

Someone scarpered from the tent with a mumble of ‘Yes sire’, and Uther breathed in deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as he regained control.

“Let us all pray that our losses are minimal and the other side’s are in excess.” He swallowed thickly before moving to take his set at the head of the war table, Arthur sitting on his right side of the table.

“Reports say that Morgana was sighted during the battle.” The words had an immediate effect on Uther. Arthur tightened his hands into fists as his father slammed his hand down on the table, jolting the map and papers further down.

“Why is her head not here on this table?” he asked coldly, harbouring no love left for the woman he’d sold off to Urien. “Isn’t that our objective? If we see one of the targets, we go for them. And if you go for them, I expect their heads to be cooling on this table when the battle is done!”

He was shouting again by now, composure lost now that the war had been drawing into its third month. They’d all changed since the beginning, hardening at the betrayal of someone who had been their own, but Uther had been the one to change the most.

Arthur, of course, knew the reason why. He’d overheard Uther’s confidence in Gaius; of the king telling his physician that he had no choice but to marry his own daughter to ease the threat Urien posed. Urien had been known to dabble in other courts – Bayard of Mercia in particular – and Uther hadn’t been at a position to fight both Cenred and Bayard at the same time. He’d made peace with Urien through Morgana, and Urien had in turn used his influence to allow Uther to sign a contract of peace with Bayard.

When Arthur, still young and only just filling the boots of his knighthood, had learnt of it, he’d marched straight to Morgana, the secret juicy and ripe on his lips. Instead of shock or horror, Morgana had told him that she knew, the secret withering and fading and Arthur wanting to know why she’d never told him before.

A few weeks later, Morgana had been cast aside to Urien and she’d left with a cold glint in her eyes, sharing a warm parting with Arthur and the coldest with Uther.

When the war had started, Arthur had been shocked at the strong will Uther had to see Morgana’s head laid separate from her body; but then again, he knew the views Uther held on magic. Instead of waning in his older age, those views had strengthened, turning to madness in his mind. The king wanted nothing more than the blood of his enemies, and Arthur’s mouth grew into a grim line, knowing what he was going to say next.

“Who scouted her?” Uther’s nostrils flared as he looked around the tent. No one dared move. “Then who was sent after her?”

No one looked at Uther, staring around the tent in faked interest. They all knew what was coming, but they didn’t have to be happy about it. If they could delay it a little more, there was always the hope they’d be interrupted by a more pressing urge and the king’s wishes would be forgotten.

“Well?” Uther demanded, focusing on one of the younger noblemen. He was still green and had been chosen because he would break easily.

“Lamorak,” he offered weakly, wincing as he pronounced the name. “Sir Lamorak announced her and set off after her.”

Uther nodded, pleased, even as the rest of the tent shifted uncomfortably.

“If Lamorak didn’t perish on the field, have him sent to the outlying tent. I’ll deal with him myself.” Uther’s words were cold, too familiar and said too many times; and the camp knew the fate that awaited Lamorak. For failing to deliver Morgana’s head, he’d pay with his own.

Just then, a scout entered the tent, hands shaking slightly as he clutched a piece of parchment. The lords gathered looked up, sighing as they realised that the dead were about to be announced.

“Camelot lost twenty; Mercia a further thirty three knights. Eight squires were lost as well as six servicemen. Two banner men were killed and our standard was found gutted like a pig on the outskirts.” The scout shifted uncomfortably. That was around seventy men lost in this skirmish alone. They’d already contracted men in from all over Camelot and Mercia, if this continued, there would be no men left to die.

“And the other losses?” Arthur said tiredly, not sharing Uther’s sentiment that the enemy should have more deaths than they did. They were still people, magic or not, and Arthur wanted no more people to die.

“Minimal,” the scout replied, turning to Arthur in relief. Arthur was the one people tended to prefer talking to for the fact that he was less likely to demand blood for punishment.

“Meaning they won,” Uther said bitterly, and the scout made his retreat while his limbs were still attached to his body. “This isn’t good enough!”

Uther launched his body out of his chair, pacing like a caged, mad dog at the head of the table. He turned, thumped a fist on the table and turned his head to Arthur.

“This has to end,” he said, and nodded his head firmly. “Arthur, you will take a small unit of knights to the boarder of Cenred’s land. See what you can find and kill any wearing the red oak banner.”

There was no way Arthur could contradict such an order. Besides, leaving the oppressive war camp would be a welcome change to staying, especially if Lamorak was to receive punishment. Even if Arthur had to kill whoever he found, at least he got to leave.

The scent of blood cloaked Arthur and he was sick of the weary faced men and having to deliver morale-boosting speeches. He wanted this was over, wanted his people to rest safe, but that couldn’t happen yet. Arthur didn’t know how to stop Uther short of trying to ally with Morgana, Morgause and Cenred – yet that would make him a betrayer. He couldn’t betray his father, no matter the differences in their views.

He moved out at once, leaving the lords to their cushy chairs, plotting the fighting even though they’d likely never see the battlefield in action. It was Arthur’s men who died for this course, men he’d trained from whelps to soldiers. He was the one fighting with them, sending them all to their deaths, and for what?

Arthur sighed, rolling his shoulders. He made a brief trip to his tent before calling his squire to attend his horse. He’d select his men then ride out, allow them to ride out the stress before they all set up camp for the night.

The men he chose were lower-tiered knights, ones that wouldn’t be missed. They could do with a morale boost such as being chosen for a private mission and it wouldn’t hinder processes back at camp. They followed Arthur with grim faces, brightening as they neared Cenred’s land, glad to get away from the destruction that marred their home. They set up camp under the shadow of the Ridge, a mysterious forest on the back of the Ascetir downs, and his men set to work tending to fires and cooking food they’d brought along.

It wasn’t long before Arthur announced that it was time to sleep, and they hunkered down grateful of the silence of their surroundings. Arthur drifted off to sleep with ease, comfortable that they were safe and needing the rest right down to his bones.

He woke in the night, a rustling sparking every instinct he’d been trained to feel. Instantly, Arthur was awake and on his feet, sword in hand and eyes darting for any sign of disturbance. They had camped just inside of the forest in a small copse. It meant that they were protected from sight, but not from anyone who could tramp through.

Arthur couldn’t see anything out of place, however, and made to lower his sword when a blue glint caught his eye. It was a tiny thing, a fairy he would have said if such things existed, and Arthur started towards it, frowning.

The creature, a shimmering silver and blue, flitted off before he could catch a proper glimpse. It looked like a huge dragonfly, from the distance Arthur was at, at least, and it continued to flit about the woods, leading Arthur further and further in. Everything was screaming at him that this was a trap, but there was something about the little creature that Arthur needed to know more about.

They reached a thick part of the wood and the creature stopped. Arthur smiled slightly, moving to reach and touch the shimmering body, when another light flared up between the trees, this time blue and gold mixing together.

Arthur continued staring as the light grew stronger, illuminating a grove of twisted trees. They were gnarled and contorted together, what seemed like hundreds of trees curled over one another to form an odd fortress shape. There was an archway that formed a door and gaps in the trees where the light pooled out from, and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time and he couldn’t take his eyes from it.

“I have been expecting you,” a voice called suddenly. Arthur started, tightening his grip once more on his sword and raising it, slipping into a fighting stance.

“Who’s there?” he called, peering through the offered light and looking for the owner of the voice. “Show yourself!” he demanded, drawing a chuckle from whoever it was.

“I am no one but your humble servant,” the voice chided. A shadow lurched in front of the archway. It seemed to twist and shape itself through the golden light before settling in the form of a tall man.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked, though there was a deep set of familiarity in his chest, as if he should know who this man was.

The man chuckled before reaching his hand out, gesturing to Arthur.

“Come inside,” he called out, and Arthur stepped forward. The light warmed him, soothed away the pains from the battle earlier, and Arthur knew that no matter who this man was, he was right and true. He had to see his face, had to know who he was and why he’d called Arthur there.

Inside of the twisted tree fortress reminded Arthur of a comfy home, a villager’s pride and joy perhaps. They were in a long, wooden-floored room, walls made of stone and a window on the right hand side. It was a completely different world to the one he’d stepped from, and Arthur looked at the man warily. The golden light had died down now and Arthur could see the man in full, ordinary light.

His mind instantly drew back to the dreams he’d entertained as a young child, of a warlock that had burnt himself and his village rather than be taken by Uther’s men. He remembered the dark hair and bright blue eyes he’d envisioned for his friend, of his skinnier build, but also his compassion and kindness. He’d dreamt about that boy too, seen how he fought to hold onto his magic, of how it overpowered him, but Arthur had always thought it was just that – a dream.

But here the boy was, all grown up, just as Arthur himself was. It was hard to imagine that he – if he really was the boy who had burnt his village – was real. Arthur could very well be dreaming, but he didn’t want this to be a dream. He wanted it to be real, because if he was, the man was on his side. More importantly, a magic user was on his side. With a magic user, Arthur might be able to strike a deal with Morgana, to save his people and end the pointless fighting.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked again, refusing to sit down on one of the benches the room offered.  
The man smiled, taking a seat and looking up at Arthur.

“I’m Merlin,” he said, the name washing over Arthur like cool water. It was a relief to finally know, to finally have the name of his friend.

“Arthur,” Arthur replied, unsure whether he should hold his hand out. What was the correct propriety when learning of one’s friends’ real name? Merlin had been there ever since Morgana had told him the tale, yet learning his name meant so much.

“I know who you are,” Merlin said with a slight quirk of the lips. “You are the Once and Future King, prophesised to unite the land of Albion under you!” There was glory and love in Merlin’s words, and Arthur shook his head.

“There has to be a mistake,” he began, but Merlin stood, taking his hands in his own.

“The Great Dragon himself told me,” Merlin said. “Back when I was a child. The story of the King who would rise above all others, transcend mortality and unite his people.”

Merlin’s smile was warm and a hand traced Arthur’s face, plotting his features and committing them to memory.

“Is that why you chose your own death?” Arthur challenged, not bothering to ask if the boy in the story was Merlin. He knew it was; it had to be.

Merlin offered a secretive smile, not answering the question and instead moving to a table, pouring a glass of water for them both.

“Someone needed to guide you,” Merlin said. “I did what I had to do and now I’m here by your side. I carry no fear.”

There was a lull in the conversation and Arthur took the moment to study Merlin. He was everything he’d imagined, every inch the boy he’d grown up with in his head. Arthur had never told anyone about Merlin before, never dared let himself dream of the him in another’s company, but here was his hope, his guide and someone he could look to in this bitter, endless war.

“I…” Arthur began, unsure how to explain himself. It was almost a weakness, to admit this, but he felt safe with Merlin, like he could tell him anything – if he didn’t know it already that was. “I used to dream of you,” he continued eventually, and Merlin shot him a look.

“Who’s to say they were dreams?” Merlin smiled softly. “I’ve always been with you.”

Smiling ever so slightly, Arthur nodded, feeling the sentiment in his chest. Even though Merlin had destroyed himself and his village, he was still there for Arthur, always had been. It was their destiny for Merlin to stay by his side, and Arthur would do everything he could to fulfil it.

“Where are we?” Arthur asked, knowing that they couldn’t be in the forest. Or at least, not his forest. Merlin was magical which probably meant that this place was too, but instead of frightening Arthur it soothed him.

It was Merlin’s magic, magic he’d secretly coveted all his life. When Uther had been executing sorcerers left, right and centre, Merlin’s hand had been clasped in his own, invisible to all, but no less there. Arthur had imagined up the tricks Merlin would show him when they were older, for Merlin had always told him that he couldn’t do magic in Camelot, not even in the cover of darkness and tucked under bed sheets.

“This is my home,” Merlin replied, throwing his arms out and turning around. “A safe house while I waited for you.”

Arthur was about to ask what he meant when Merlin turned and moved to the back of the room. He moved around for a short while, collecting objects and laying them out on the table. When he was done, he gestured for Arthur to join him.

“I’ve been looking after these,” he began, moving a hand to point to nine objects placed down on the table. “They’re the treasures that secure your passage to king. Go on, you can look closer.” Merlin’s voice was soft and gentle, and Arthur stepped forward, looking at the objects.

The objects were all familiar to Arthur and he looked at Merlin in amazement, running a hand over the deep brown of the first object.

“This is my first hunting cloak,” he said, looking at the ermine trim with fondness and then back at Merlin. “I lost it years ago, it was my favourite.”

“It’s one of the treasures,” Merlin said. “It allows me to become invisible, such is the magic working through it. It’s been an asset and will be an even greater one in the future.”

Arthur’s eyes left the plush cloak, draped across the wood of the table, a dim, brown stain against the wood, to the other objects. Merlin began naming them and their significance, though they were all things Arthur had seen before and lost over the years.

“A drinking horn that will fill with whatever liquid you desire, “ Merlin began, hands smoothing over the large horn Arthur had received for his tenth birthday. “A whetstone to sharpen a brave man’s sword and blunt that of a coward. A platter for any food you shall desire,” Arthur recognised the Pendragon kitchens insignia and the soft molten bronze of the plate. It had been one of several commissioned for a young Arthur when he was known for taking picnics to the wood. These plates were cheap and didn’t break easily, but looked as fine as any at the high table.

“A red robe,” Merlin said with a smile, tapping the robe Arthur had stolen as a child from his father, to dress in and rule over his bedroom. “That will hide whoever wears it. A cauldron that cooks only the food of a brave man,” and Arthur recognised the pot that he and Morgana used to secret into the woods, muttering nonsense and testing out ‘spells’, before magic became dangerous in their heads – before it stopped being fun to do something forbidden.

“A knife to make sacrifices and a chessboard which plays itself,” Merlin continued, nodding to the jewel-encrusted, hand-sized knife and the sliver-and-gold chessboard. Both had been gifts for Arthur’s coming-of-age, ridiculously ornate, as gifts for royalty were supposed to be at lavish ceremonies.

“A hamper,” was next, and Arthur smiled as he ran a hand over the picnic hamper he’d favoured as a child. “That will multiply by one hundred a portion of meat laid in it.” Merlin opened the lid and closed it again before taking Arthur’s hand and leading him to a corner of the room. A small chariot, the one Arthur had hitched up to the tiny ponies he’d first learnt to ride on, sat there.

“It needs no horse and will take you wherever you wish for it to.” Merlin turned back to Arthur.

“They’re not complete,” he said, voice full of regret and Arthur wanted nothing more than to shake that regret. “There’s still three objects missing, and without them, you cannot become king.”

Arthur looked at the table at the assembled objects, wondering what else he’d need. While these things were useful – the robe in particular could be a valuable asset to secure a safe ending for Camelot even if they had to surrender to magic – they wouldn’t be able to change anything.

“These three objects will make you invincible. They will make you the Once and Future King of Albion, the one man who can unite the land.” Merlin smiled. “I’m here to help you get them.”

Merlin led the way back to one of the benches and they sat down, Merlin gripping his hands. Arthur looked down, studying their fingers.

“What do you mean?” he asked after a while.

“You have to complete three tasks to gain your throne,” Merlin explained. “There are three more treasures you need to recover before the very earth itself will tremble at your command. You need the sword White-Hilt, the mantle Gwenn and the ring of Eluned.”

Arthur couldn’t recall what the three objects were and if they’d once belonged to him. Merlin seemed to understand for he spoke up once more.

“These are three objects that you must take. They are yours to claim, but they were stolen years ago by a demon. It’s hidden them in secret places, ones we can find and steal the objects back from.” Merlin’s tone was serious and it sent shivers down the back of Arthur’s spine.

“Will they help me win the war?” Arthur asked, silence filling the space around them.

“They’ll make you king,” was what Merlin offered instead, and Arthur knew that he wasn’t going to get any other answer. He swallowed thickly and nodded, understanding that recovering the artifacts would be as close to treason as Arthur would ever step.

But he trusted Merlin. He’d grown up with the shadow of a boy in his mind ever since the day Morgana had told him that a sorcerer had chosen to torch himself rather than face punishment at Camelot’s hand. Merlin had done that for Arthur, for a destiny he could choose to finally embark upon.

Uther was getting old now and the war was straining. Camelot itself was almost out of food rations and the harvests were barely enough to feed the people, let alone an army in full battle. They’d been at this war too long and Arthur needed to do what was best. If Merlin could provide him with a way to do that, then he’d grasp with both hands tightly. He wouldn’t seek to overthrow Uther or conspire against him, but this was couldn’t continue.

And if magic had to return for peace, then Arthur would allow it. He’d seen the good magic could do – men and women crossing the battlefield and healing both sides, doing what they could for everyone. Men who should have died were saved and would return to their families.

Before the war, Arthur would never have given Camelot up. Even now he’d fight with everything he had to keep his birth right (on the few occasions Morgana or Morgause had been on the field long enough to talk they’d stated they cared little for land or titles, just returning magic and balance, yet Cenred was another matter), but if he had to surrender something for the sake of his people, Arthur would without question.

“What do I have to do?” Arthur asked and Merlin smiled, nodding eagerly.

“There is a task for each of the objects. The first task is to retrieve the ring of Eluned, a ring that lets you see without being seen.” Arthur thought of what he could do with a ring of such power. He could walk over to Morgana and Morgause and ruin them if need be.

“Where do I go?” Arthur asked, breathless. He wanted to start now, but Merlin’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I’ll find you tomorrow. Dawn will be breaking soon and you need to go back.” Merlin moved across the room, grabbing a scrap of blue fabric from somewhere and pressing it to Arthur’s hand.

“So you know it’s not a dream,” he said, tugging Arthur up from the bench and leading him out of the room. Arthur was alone as he exited the twisting trees, and he looked back over his shoulder, the cloth warm in his hands.

Now he had the power to stop this war, he’d do everything he could. This was what his life had been building towards, what Merlin had sacrificed everything for, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away.

He’d never been bested by a challenge yet and Arthur didn’t intend to start now.

  
**.**   


Despite the blue fabric Merlin had given him, it was hard for Arthur not to think of their meeting as a dream. He kept the cloth on him at all times, wound tight and tied around his wrist, but it still didn’t seem real. It was two days since Arthur had seen Merlin and, each night, he dismissed his squire early and lay in wait for Merlin, except he never came.

There had been no more skirmishes or fighting since the last big battle, something for which everyone was grateful. Uther had sent a good number of men off locally to help with whatever they could in the villages, be it planting or harvesting. These men would be recalled if there were any signs of a fight brewing, but Uther had finally taken Arthur’s advice and sent them. At least no one there would starve just yet.

It wasn’t often that Arthur became morose, but as he lay in his tent for the third night in a row, waiting, his thoughts drifted to Camelot. He thought of the castle, white stone and gleaming halls, and of the familiar faces he’d left behind. He thought of his horses and hunting dogs, of the possessions that he may never see again. War was unpredictable, and if your time was up, it was up.

“There’s a clear path to the forest,” a voice cut through Arthur’s thoughts and he jerked up, reaching for his sword instinctively.

“Yes, yes bring that along.” Merlin’s smile was visible even in the dim of the tent. “We haven’t much time to waste. He doesn’t come out very often and I thought we’d have to wait longer.”

“I’m sorry?” Arthur asked. “What are you talking about?”

His previous anger with Merlin was gone, the thrill of him being here overloading the annoyance it had taken him this long.

“We need to go to the moribund tree. Underneath its roots there is a creature, the Beast Glatisant, and in its stomach is the ring of Eluned.” Merlin held out a jacket for Arthur and wrapped a cloak – the brown hunting cloak of Arthur’s - around his own shoulders. “Come, we don’t have time to lose.”

They moved out of Arthur’s tent, passing between rows of smaller tents until they reached the side. At one point they came across a group of knights, a little rowdy from contraband ale, but they took little notice of Arthur and none of Merlin. The cloak had magic now, Arthur knew, and wondered if it kept Merlin hidden from all sight but his own.

They ventured into the forest in silence. Words weren’t needed when you’d been with someone for a large part of your life and Arthur was happy to relax in the silence. He could feel Merlin beside him and that was all he needed.

At what seemed like the centre of the forest lay a wilted tree. If not for the smaller spring branches, Arthur would have assumed it was a dead tree. Buds were blossoming across the surface of the branches and while the leaves came out wilted, the fruit was bright and red.

“The moribund tree, a tree that appears half-dead yet contains the secret of life and death itself, or so they say.” Merlin cocked an eyebrow before moving forwards slowly, reaching to touch the rough trunk.

“They?” Arthur questioned lightly, stepping over large roots until he was by Merlin’s side.

Merlin made a non-committal sound. “The demons and sorcerers who dabble in the darker arts,” he explained with a frown, just before he clapped his hands together and looked down at the ground.

“You need to go under the roots. There should be an arching root somewhere and you can pull it up until it forms a doorway.” Merlin began looking around, locating a thick root and heaving it upwards, no doubt with the aide of magic.

Instead of space forming between the root and the ground, an odd tunnel emerged leading down into the earth. Lights flickered along the tunnel walls, moving as if they were fairies, and Arthur shot Merlin a look.

“I can’t come with you,” Merlin said, looking regretful and reading Arthur’s thoughts perfectly. “These tasks have to be done by you and to collect the ring, you need to enter the tunnel alone.”

Merlin leant forward until he was close to Arthur, so close that their skin brushed as Merlin whispered in Arthur’s ear.

“I believe in you,” he said, and Arthur swallowed thickly, gripping the hilt of his sword and pulling it out.

“All you need to do is find Beast Glatisant and remove the ring from its stomach.” Merlin stepped back, hands still on the archway tunnel entrance. “Good luck.”

Arthur stepped into the cold, damp air of the tunnel, sucking in a deep breath. This was nothing compared to the war or the tournaments he’d fought in (it was a common beast as his opponent for heaven’s sake), but he’d never had to travel under the earth with only magic and Merlin’s words to guide him.

Still, he needed the ring and he needed this beast. Arthur walked on down the tunnel, avoiding roots and the thinner parts of the tunnel, glad for once that he hadn’t put his armour on. While the entrance to the tunnel had been cold, it was growing hotter and hotter as he continued onwards.

Suddenly, there was an odd sound, like a squeaky door being pushed open, and Arthur raised his sword into a fighting position. Merlin hadn’t mentioned whether there were other creatures down here and Arthur wasn’t about to risk it.

He walked on and the tunnel opened into a round circle, a network of roots in the centre stretching from the ceiling to floor. It had to be the heart of the tree and if there was any place that the beast was likely to be, it had to be here.

“Right,” Arthur muttered, looking around. He’d perhaps expected a dank cave or something, a small space where it would be easy to spot the creature, but that didn’t seem to be the case here.

“What’s this?” a voice called. It sounded ancient and hoarse, deep with something that wasn’t quite human.

Arthur turned to the centre of the room slowly, watching as a huge beast– a mix of serpent and leopard, with pale haunches and feet of a hart – emerged from the network of roots. It gave a low hiss, the sound of a door opening, and took another step towards Arthur.

“I’ve been sent to collect something,” said Arthur, inspecting the beast. Would it just hand the ring over? Or would he have to kill the creature.

“Oh?” Glatisant said, snaking its neck out and flicking its tongue before Arthur. It sat down on its haunches, eyes raking over Arthur’s body. “Something?” it sounded dubious and let out a shuddering noise. “You mean you want my ring?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Can I have it?”

Beast Glatisant laughed, the barking sounds of hundreds of hell-hounds rising from its throat and pouring from between its teeth. “The ring is mine. I do not give up my treasures so lightly. Besides, why would someone like you need the ring?”

“Merlin told me I needed the ring,” Arthur said and was about to continue when Beast Glatisant let loose another bubbling laugh.

“Merlin? That old fool? And you believed him?” The beast laughed yet again, the sound grating on Arthur’s nerves. “What makes you think you can trust him? Plays with your head, he does.”

Glatisant looked at Arthur with a sly glint in its eye. “It was Merlin who gave me the ring to keep after all. He told me not to give it up, not for anyone, so how can you trust a word he says?”

Arthur tilted his chin, grip tightening on his sword. He didn’t have time for this beast’s tricks anymore, especially when it spoke to him in such a way. It was an arrogant beast and he wanted nothing more than to slit its belly and pull out the ring that was rightfully his.

“Merlin has been by my side for years while I’ve known you for a handful of minutes. Why should I trust you?” Beast Glatisant looked slightly surprised to find his question turned on him and it drew his neck in, frowning in slight anger and letting out a sharp collection of barks.

“Speak carefully, boy,” it warned, eyes narrowing. “You’re on my ground now.”

The Questing Beast took another step closer, disdain clear in its eyes. There was no way it would give up the ring and Arthur grit his teeth. He struck like a snake, clean and quick, and the beast roared, stomach gutted as Arthur’s sword slid neatly through. Blue fire tinged the edge of the blade and Arthur thanked Merlin for his foresight.

Blood - the thick, black, tar-like blood of a monster - spewed from the beast’s belly. Nothing could be seen in the mess and Arthur knew he’d have to dig through the contents of Glatisant’s corpse to find his prize.

Knowing that he had little time left before he would be missed at the camp, Arthur sheathed his sword and rolled up his sleeves. He was forearm-deep in rank intestines not long after, grimacing at the cold liquid around his hands. This was further proof the beast wasn’t a normal one – besides the fact that it looked unlike any other and had the power of human speech – as it should have been warm and instead was cold.

At the top of the stomach, now high in the beast’s chest, was a warm spot. Arthur felt hope spike in his own chest and after a few slippery moments, he pulled a circular object out, wiping it clean on his jacket. It revealed itself as a stone ring, roughly shaped but easy to slip on. It fit his thumb perfectly and Arthur heaved a sigh of relief, uncaring that he was covered in black goo. He’d found the ring of Eluned and that was all that mattered.

Returning to the surface was easy, especially knowing that Merlin would be waiting for him. Arthur stumbled out of the fairy-lit tunnel with a smile on his face, holding his hand out for Merlin. When Merlin saw the ring, he moved to catch Arthur’s hand, brushing some more of the black liquid from the stone.

“You really did it,” he muttered, almost to himself. Merlin then looked back up at Arthur, eyes wide and smile huge. “You really did it!” he repeated, gripping Arthur’s hand in enthusiasm.

“I had to kill it,” Arthur said, just in case Merlin hadn’t realised that with the amount of magic-toad-gore covering him. “The beast... I had to kill it.”

Merlin only smiled. “For now. It was well overdue. It wouldn’t still be here if not for me, but there was another use for it.” Merlin broke off, stroking Arthur’s hand absently as he looked at the ring in amazement.

“Come,” he said a moment later. “You must get back and I need to prepare for the second task.”

Merlin’s hand stayed warm against Arthur’s as they walked back, with Merlin occasionally looking to Arthur and smiling proudly. It was more than his father, more than anyone, had ever shown him and Arthur couldn’t help the self-satisfaction he felt.

Getting back to Arthur’s tent was easy; between Merlin’s cloak and Arthur’s ring, the people they did see couldn’t see them. Arthur was thankful for he didn’t want to share Merlin with anyone and he certainly didn’t want to be stopped. The only person he could share this victory with was Merlin and he planned to do so in the privacy of his tent.

“Thank you,” Arthur said as soon as they were in the tent. Merlin smiled in return.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “Well, besides open the tunnel for you and tell you that you needed to get to the Beast…” he broke off with a cheeky grin. “Still, you did the hard part. You really are the Once and Future King.”

Merlin brushed close again, pressing the smallest kiss to Arthur’s lips. “To congratulate you,” Merlin whispered as he pulled back, running his hand across Arthur’s cheek and wiping away the black smudge of remaining Beast-blood there.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Merlin said and left the tent in a single swoop, though he didn’t quite manage to pull it off as fluidly as he’d hoped.

Arthur cleaned up as best he could, wiping his face and arms down with a cloth and shucking the soiled clothes off his body. It was almost certain that he’d have to destroy the clothes, but that was something he’d have to do alone. There was nothing close to what looked like the Beast gore and he couldn’t explain it was magic for fear of his father taking his head. ‘Rules were rules’ was something that Arthur had always been told, and Uther had made it quite clear that no son of his was exempt from this rule.

It all made sense when he’d realised that Morgana had betrayed Uther and he simply wanted to control Arthur. Except Arthur wasn’t there to be controlled anymore. He had Merlin now, and with Merlin came two more artefacts that would secure his rise to save his people.

Arthur fell asleep with the ring on his finger, dreams thankfully absent of Questing Beasts, but full of Merlin and the small kiss he’d imparted.

  
**.**   


Venturing onto the outskirts of the camp was a dangerous task, especially when Arthur was the crown prince. He knew he shouldn’t be out by the edges of the camp, parts even the guards tended to shy away from due to the nature of the land, but if there was a place Merlin would show up, it had to be here.

Each night, Arthur made a point of stopping by the thick, bramble-coated part of the forest. He ventured only a little inside, but he knew he’d be sheltered enough from everyone else, even if he chose not to wear the ring of Eluned. As it was, the ring hid him from mortal sight and Arthur could wait patiently, taking a moment for himself in hopes Merlin would be there for the second task.

It was still in the first few days of this new routine that Arthur witness treason with his bare eyes. Though some might say Arthur himself was toeing the line of treason by aiding a sorcerer and empowering him, Arthur was doing it for the good of his kingdom. What he saw, on the other hand, wouldn’t be seen as such.

“You need to be careful,” a male voice whispered into the bracken and Arthur was alert at once, gripping to his hunting dagger and looking out into the gloom of the forest.

“I know it’s risky meeting like this, but I needed to let you know.” It was a woman’s voice, once Arthur could recognise even though he hadn’t spoken to the woman for a while. It was Guinevere, Morgana’s maid before she’d left for Urien.

Arthur wasn’t surprised she was here though; he’d noticed she’d signed on to help the scullery maids who would be providing food. Despite staying at the camp, it was still a dangerous job, but no one dared object the women who had offered. They’d offered for a reason, being incredibly resourceful and self-preserving. At the time, Arthur hadn’t fully understood why Guinevere had joined them, but it all made sense now.

“Whatever it is, couldn’t it have waited a few days? We all fear for your safety and meeting too often is going to put you in greater danger.” It sounded as though the man had had this conversation more than once and despite the treason in the air, Arthur smiled to himself.

“Morale is at an all-time low,” Guinevere persisted and Arthur closed his eyes against the betrayal. It made sense for her to follow her mistress, but she was still Gwen, a girl he had shared meals with and an occasional joke. Yet here she was, a traitor in Uther’s war camp.

“Everyone thinks Uther’s gone mad. He’s losing control and the knights are practically shouting that if Arthur were to call the war off then they’d follow him.” Guinevere paused and there was a rustle in the bushes. “We’re all tired. The only difference between Morgana’s side and ours is that we have more power. Everyone knows this, I’m sure even Uther himself does.”

Guinevere sighed. “I just want to go home.”

Where he sat, on a broken tree trunk, Arthur closed his eyes. That was what he wanted too, more than anything. He respected anyone who had the guts to admit that to another person, and he purposefully closed his ears as Guinevere discussed various weaknesses.

Before she finished, Arthur got up to leave, slipping the ring of Eluned from his finger and made his way back to the camp. His pace was slow and he’d just reached the outskirts of the forest when Guinevere stumbled out, covered in thorns and with her skirt torn.

She looked at Arthur with something akin to horror, but he simply tilted his head.

“A nice night for a walk perhaps,” he offered, turning his back –and a blind eye – to what she was doing. It wasn’t, after all, that dissimilar to what he and Merlin were doing.

They all just wanted what was best for their people. What was so wrong in that?

  
**.**   


It was a week later that another battle flared up and Arthur grunted as he pulled his sword from a body, turning to the next enemy. The ring was on a string around his neck and while it would be so easy to slip it on and move silently through the field, killing all in his wake, it was dishonourable. His opponents were still people and they deserved a respectable death.

There was a roar from the other side of the field, and Arthur turned to watch a struggle between a group of knights and sorcerers. A jolt shot through him as he realised it was Morgana over there, clutching her arm as if she’d been wounded.

Another woman held her, trying to pull her from the battlefield – Morgause? – but Morgana kept trying to pull back, almost as if…

Arthur’s eyes widened. There was only one other person who was coveted as much as Morgana and Morgause. Rumours of a child sorcerer with enough power to bring Camelot to its knees with one look had flooded the camp and from then reports of seeing the boy had been sporadic. He existed, yes, but his powers hadn’t been seen, thankfully.

As Morgana was finally pulled from the battlefield, the rest of the sorcerers pulled back. Soon, Camelot and her allies were shouting victories and insults in the way of the fleeing sorcerers, but Arthur didn’t have time for that. He needed to get to the child before his father did something stupid. If they killed such a valuable hostage, there was even less hope that Arthur could bargain with Morgana and unite the land in peace.

“Arthur!” a voice called from the side as Arthur marched through the camp, and he started, turning around in shock.

“Merlin?” he questioned, frowning at the familiar brown cloak and dark hair. “I have to-“

“The second task is ready,” Merlin cut in, looking around before stepping into the open. “You need to come now.”

Arthur would be missed, he knew that, but if Merlin needed him to complete the task now, what did he have to lose?

“The boy-“ he began, but Merlin simply shook his head.

“Mordred knows enough to stay alive if it comes to that, though I highly doubt it. He’s too precious a bargaining chip.” The words were said with slight distain, as if there was a meaning to them that Arthur didn’t understand.

With one fleeting look at the war-meeting tent, Arthur swallowed and nodded, checking that his sword was at his hip and ring around his neck before following Merlin out into the woods. They walked back to the twisted tree ring, day turning to night, and Merlin made no hesitation in entering, Arthur following soon after.

Instead of the workroom they had entered into before, Merlin led Arthur out of a shallow cave and into the sun. An ocean lay before him and angry waves crashed against the cliff-face, frothy and rough. A few droplets, every now and again, flew up against Arthur’s face and he touched them absently, looking to Merlin for guidance.

“No harm will come to you,” Merlin promised. “I have magic and I will always save you.” He smiled so brightly and truthfully that Arthur immediately felt surer of himself. He straightened in his armour – still dirty from the battle he’d fought before coming – and rested a hand against the pommel of his sword.

“So what do I need to do?” he asked and Merlin looked around, pointing to a larger cave just before them, along a narrow ledge.

“The sword White-Hilt is in there somewhere. If anyone but you draws the sword, it will alight with fire. It will be loyal to you and you alone. A demon stole it a long, long time ago, but I know it’s here.” Merlin’s voice was confident and Arthur couldn’t help but nod.

As he began to shift along the edge of the cliff, Merlin caught Arthur’s arm. Arthur looked back, starting at the seriousness in Merlin’s eyes.

“The demon is in there. He’ll be sleeping now, in a form that will appear as vulnerable to you.” Merlin’s lips thinned and his frown deepened. “His name is Emrys.”

The name was said as if it belonged to an old friend; a far cry from the demon Merlin had called it earlier.

“What is Emrys?” Arthur asked, not understanding what a demon was, what it was to Merlin and why it had a name.

In reply, Merlin simply smiled, shaking his head in answer.

And though he wanted to pry, the words choked in Arthur’s throat and he let them die. Merlin continued, barely seeming to notice Arthur’s struggle to speak.

“Without him I’d be nothing, and even that is probably too much to say.” He smiled at Arthur, shrugging his shoulders. “But we’re only here for the sword. Emrys will let you take the sword and will slumber on, but should you take anything else, you will fail your task and all shall be lost.”

Arthur nodded, eyes leaving Merlin and tracking their journey along the ledge. They reached the cave in good time and stood on the edge before Arthur took the plunge, heading into the darkness of the cave.

Inside, far back, there was a glowing light. When Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the gloomy surroundings, he noticed that the light source was trapped between two hands, the hands of an old man. For a moment, Arthur was about to wake the sleeping man, tell him to get out while he still could, and then he remembered Merlin’s words. An old man was vulnerable and this man was the demon Emrys.

Making sure not to disturb Emrys, Arthur looked around the cave. Unlike Merlin’s home, there was no order to the objects scattered and pooled on the floor. For all Arthur knew, the sword he was searching for could be anywhere, under any amount of junk.

“You’ll be able to feel it,” Merlin whispered, suddenly at Arthur’s side. Arthur turned to him, about to say that he’d felt the warmth of the ring inside of the Beast when he noticed Merlin’s eyes firmly on the old man.

Shaking his head and using that same principle, Arthur closed his eyes and let his senses guide him, leaving Merlin to his thoughts. He moved around the room slowly, trying to feel for any sign of heat and was about to give up when he felt it, a tiny sport of warmth over to his left.

a pile of small books as he did so.

“Got it,” he said and looked down, frowning at the title of one of them. It was tiny, made to fit the palm of the hand, but the spiralled script on the front proclaimed it to be the name taking of Pendragon family and Arthur picked it up, wondering why Emrys would keep something like this. It should, by all accounts, be his.

“Arthur!” Merlin called suddenly, voice hurried and urgent. “We need to go, now!”

Arthur turned slowly and dropped the book. The glass containing the light in Emrys’ hands had shattered and was blazing around the old man. It glimmered and Emrys faded into it, becoming one with the light and vanishing. It made for Arthur, but Merlin got there first, letting the light hit him square in the chest. Though he struggled against it, and Arthur could see how badly Merlin wanted to be free of it, it seemed useless.

“Run now, get out!” Merlin’s voice was stilted, breaking with the force Emrys’ light was forcing on him. “If you get out, all might not be lost!”

Arthur couldn’t move though and he watched uselessly as Merlin began to dissolve, literally vanish before his eyes, the golden light coating him thickly. Merlin was scrabbling at his chest, as if trying to push something away, but it was far too late. The damage had been done when Arthur had thought of the little book as his own, and it had cost Merlin dearly.

“Merlin!” Arthur called out, lunging forwards to try and grip Merlin, to pull him back to existence. When he reached him, though, his hand fell through Merlin’s. There was nothing he could do; Arthur had failed.

The light exploded suddenly, burning too brightly for Arthur to see, and he raised his arm against it, shielding his eyes. The light surrounded his body, too hot and too cold at the same time, and Arthur could do nothing but curl up and hope that whatever happened, he’d end up with Merlin.

  
**.**   


Arthur woke with a heavy head, as though he’d been drinking the night before. It was still dark and he could hear the sounds of celebration, the events of the past few hours catching up to him. There had been the boy – Mordred – and then Merlin had been there. What happened after took longer to catch up, and Arthur groaned.

He looked around, noticing a sword lying on the floor. It was a fine sword, finer than any he’d seen before, with a white hilt and a bright, shining blade.

That was when it hit him. Arthur shot upwards, grabbing the sword and pulling it to him, shaking his head. No, he couldn’t have failed. He had the sword didn’t he? Surely that meant he’d passed the task.

“Merlin?” he whispered into the tent, looking around as if words alone could summon his friend. He had the sword, but what use was it when Merlin wasn’t here? He hadn’t gone through all of that just to sacrifice Merlin.

He needed Merlin. He was useless as a king without Merlin, without his guide, and Arthur clutched the sword tightly, shaking his head in the dark. There was no way that Merlin wouldn’t return, that Arthur wouldn’t become king. Compared to Merlin, Emrys had to be nothing. Merlin was good and kind while Emrys was a beast, a creature of evil magic.

He climbed from his bed and fixed White-Hilt to his belt. Just as he was about to slip the ring of Eluned on, his squire charged in, head low and voice high-pitched.

“His Majesty wants to see you at once,” he squeaked, and Arthur looked to him, frowning. The boy was his squire, not a message bearer, and unless the situation had to be handled by those Uther could trust, any servant could summon Arthur.

“Did he say why?” Arthur asked, frowning as the boy shook his head ferociously. His squire wasn’t a boy afraid to question and only had a deferential nature when needed. He was inquisitive, bright-eyed and eager to learn, so to see him so demure was unsettling for Arthur.

“No,” the boy said, shaking his head from side to side. “Only that he’d have my hands cut off if I didn’t go straight away.”

Something cold and hard fell into the pit of Arthur’s stomach and he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, shaking him ever so lightly.

“You can stay in here until I get back. I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?” Arthur smiled and felt the boy relax under his hand. He nodded once and then left the tent, hand resting on White-Hilt and the ring of Eluned pressed against the skin of his chest. Whatever Uther wanted, it couldn’t be good if he was threatening harm to squires now.

“You wanted me?” Arthur asked as he entered Uther’s private tent, knowing that his father would be there at this time of day. His father’s head snapped round and he nodded, face grave.

“The druid boy,” Uther began. “The dirty sorcerer won’t spill any of his secrets.” Uther’s mouth was a thin line. “He’s the key to finishing them off and he’s not responding!”

Arthur wondered how he’d missed his father’s descent into madness. Or rather, how he’d managed to convince himself that Uther was fit to rule when it was clear now that he wasn’t. He’d torture a boy to win a war they had no hope of winning unless Emrys himself suddenly announced he was on their side and blitzed the opposition.

“Sire?” Arthur questioned lightly, not wanting to alert Uther to his current thoughts, Merlin by his side or not. Even if Merlin wasn’t there just yet, he would be soon. He’d be back, but for now Arthur had to tread carefully alone. He’d done a lot of damage so far, but he wouldn’t mess this up.

Uther had to be kept as clueless as possible for as long as he could.

“Go speak to the boy,” Uther barked, waving an arm at the tent door. “Use any method you want. You can have him from tomorrow, there’s one last thing I want to try.”

A moment of silence passed, Arthur not committing himself to the request aside from inclining his head just so.

“Anything else, Sire?” he asked politely, as far away as a son could be. Uther looked at him sharply for a moment, eyes clear and worried, before the madness crept in once again and he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

With that, Arthur bowed and spun on his heel, exiting the tent and gripping tightly to the sword at his side. White-hilt was a calming presence, reminding Arthur of Merlin and how much Merlin had been there.

It had started for Arthur as a child. Merlin had been his friend, an invisible presence that he’d kept secret simply because Merlin could do wonderful things, magical things. Arthur had never thought the boy – a ghost, a vision, he didn’t know – evil though, because he knew magic hadn’t always been bad.

Still, that was nothing compared to having Merlin next to him in the flesh. Merlin was real, not just an imagined boy from a story, but Arthur had ruined it all.

His squire was still there, as ordered, but there was another figure, shadowed in a dark cloak and tucked against the side of the tent that made Arthur’s heart skip a beat. He’d known Merlin would be okay, and here he was.

“You can have the night off,” Arthur said to his squire, trying to focus on the boy. “If anyone asks for you, come straight to me first, okay?” Arthur paused, realising how bad an idea that was. “On second thoughts, tell them that the prince has you under secret orders and you’re not to do anything that affects them.”

“What is that, my Lord?” the boy asked, voice still a little squeaky. Arthur smiled warmly.

“Orders to rest and have a night to yourself.” Arthur winked. “No one needs to know that though, make them think this war is depending on you!” He clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, watching the wide smile that spread across his face.

“Thank you!” the boy said, rushing out of the tent, leaving Arthur to face Merlin.

Neither of them said anything, Arthur feeling guilt weigh down on his chest and Merlin staying pressed against the tent. When it was almost too much to bear, Arthur opened his mouth to speak and Merlin stepped forwards.

“Arthur,” he said lightly, more a sigh than a name. Instantly Arthur froze and Merlin dropped the cloak. If anyone were to walk in now, they’d see Merlin. His last defence had gone, but Arthur wouldn’t wish it any other way.

“I’m sorry,” he said, moving forwards. “I didn’t mean to I-“

“It’s okay,” Merlin replied, stopping a bare pace before Arthur. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Arthur smiled, but when he looked closer at Merlin he could see dark circles under his eyes and noticed that he was shaking. He kept his eyes downcast, looking away from Arthur, until Arthur himself gripped his shoulders.

“What happened?” he asked, squeezing Merlin’s shoulders a little too tightly. Merlin flinched a little under his hands, but thankfully made no move away.

“Merlin, please,” Arthur said, wanting to know how badly his actions had hurt Merlin.

“It was an accident,” said Merlin suddenly, looking directly at Arthur. His eyes, which had been blue before, were now tinged with gold, the exact same gold that had bathed him in the cave. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but Merlin got their first.

“I want you to remember that,” he said, moving his hands up to rest against the side of Arthur’s neck. “Okay? You have to remember that it isn’t your fault.”

Panic was starting to build in Arthur’s stomach. What on earth had he done that Merlin of all people was trying to reassure him that it was okay and not his fault?

“When I died,” Merlin began, colours dancing in his eyes. “When I died my magic pulled itself from my body. It took me a long time to find it again when I was trapped in the space between life and death.”

Merlin took a shuddering breath and Arthur wanted to pull him closer, say that he didn’t need to say anymore even though he knew it had to be said.

“It wouldn’t go back inside of me.” Merlin smiled somewhat bitterly. “Because I’d changed the course of destiny, chose to burn my village and kill myself rather than face execution.”

Merlin looked desperate at Arthur, tightening his grip on Arthur’s shoulders.

“How was I supposed to know that things would smooth out even if the king wanted my head? I was a child with a power that he’d been told to keep secret. When I saw my mother and the villagers trying to stop the knights, I lost control. I just-“ Merlin frowned, turning his head away and Arthur let him.

“When you needed me, I was there. I was still caught in the place between life and death, but an image, spirit if you will, of me came to you, just as it should always have been.” Arthur nodded, encouraging Merlin. “The reason I wasn’t there fully was because I hadn’t found my magic. When I disrupted the course of destiny, it was taken from me until I proved myself worthy of it.”

He shrugged, as if it was a conclusion he’d reached himself.

“I eventually found it, but there was something wrong with my magic. It… was used to being free.” Merlin gave a little laugh. “This sounds ridiculous, as if it’s a creature or person. In a way magic is another being, though I doubt anyone else can say their magic is like that.”

Merlin took in a deep breath, reaching for Arthur. “So I trapped what I couldn’t force back into the shape of an old man holding a jar.”

The smile Merlin gave then was empty and Arthur felt his stomach drop.

“When I-“ Arthur began, unable to finish his sentence.

“It overpowered me,” Merlin nodded, soothing Arthur’s guilt. “But it’s okay now. My magic is back where it should be, thanks to you.” Merlin moved closer, one hand moving to cup Arthur’s jaw.

After, Arthur knew he should have expected it. It was what he’d always wished for, what he’d always hoped for, but with Merlin real and by his side, Arthur had never let himself dream. Yet now, here Merlin was, touching him and wanting more than just a brief, chaste kiss.

As they moved back towards, the bed, Merlin kissed Arthur, hands gripping Arthur’s shirt tightly, pulling them close enough so that they could feel each other’s arousal. To know that he made Merlin feel like this sent a spike of pleasure through Arthur and he tilted his head back, letting Merlin have full access.

It was easy to fall back with Merlin and even easier to, later, fall asleep with him. A part of Arthur had always reached out to Merlin and now that he was here, full flesh and magic, it felt right.

This, whatever it was, was right.

  
**.**   


Merlin was still there when the sun rose. Arthur woke first and lay staring at Merlin, inspecting every curve of his face every hair and inch of skin until he felt that he’d be able to recall Merlin’s face no matter what.

“Stop looking,” Merlin mumbled, rolling over and burrowing under the covers. Arthur smiled and lay back, closing his eyes and enjoying a rare moment of peace.

It couldn’t last though. They both knew that and Merlin was the first to rise. He dressed quickly, throwing on his brown cloak and looking back at Arthur.

“The third task,” he began, “will be to find the mantle Gwenn. We will need help tonight and you can free a child in the process.”

The wheels turned in Arthur’s head and he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Mordred?” he questioned and Merlin nodded.

“Bring him along,” repeated Merlin, to which Arthur simply nodded. At the very least, Mordred would be free. That was a good enough reason as anything, surely.

At midday, after Merlin had vanished and Arthur had tried to make himself busy so as to avoid going to Mordred, Uther stormed into Arthur’s tent.

“Why are you with the creature?” he spat, deep frown on his face as he stood before Arthur.

“Forgive me Sire,” Arthur replied, bowing his head slightly. “I had a few things to finish up this morning. I just ended lunch and was about to head over to its tent.” He was careful to refer to Mordred as a thing rather than a person and it seemed to reassure his father somewhat.

Uther nodded and left Arthur to it, most likely stalking the remainder of the quiet camp looking for people to take his simmering anger out on.

Though Arthur was dreading going to see Mordred, he knew there was no alternative. He strapped White-Hilt onto his side and made sure the ring of Eluned was around his neck before he moved across the camp, heading for the guarded tent a little way aside from the bulk of the camp.

“You’re dismissed,” Arthur said to the guards, planning to stay here until nightfall and then go on to meet Merlin, back at the twisted trees. When the guards hesitated, Arthur barked the order again, his voice sounding scarily similar to Uther’s.

The boy – and he was a boy, younger than Arthur’s squire and far more scared – was trembling when Arthur entered. He was chained to a post in the room, beaten and huddled in on himself. Arthur knew for a fact that the boy had been drugged with a tincture of nightshade, a usually deadly poison that Gaius had adapted to subdue sorcerers. It was used to tame them, to calm them and keep them from escaping.

Whatever label you posted on it, it was still barbaric and Arthur curled his lip in disgust. In response, Mordred shifted back, trying to shield himself even more.

“You don’t-“ Arthur began, but what could he say?

“Morgana’s my sister,” he tried out instead, and it appeared to be interesting enough for Mordred to look up. “I can take you back to her.”

He didn’t uncurl, but Mordred stopped trembling and looked at Arthur, inspecting him. For his part, Arthur sun to the floor, leaning against a supporting pole and stretching out. He would have liked to have brought a scroll or book with him, but it would have looked too suspicious considering he was supposed to be torturing Mordred.

Arthur didn’t fear that Uther would come. His father was too angry to make the journey and placed his faith in Arthur. Until now, Uther had had no idea that Arthur was committing treason and it would be too late when he realised it today. Arthur would be gone, securing his final treasure and would then help Morgana to free his people of Uther’s tyranny.

They spent most of the afternoon in silence, Arthur thinking of Merlin and what he’d do to save his kingdom while Mordred alternated between napping and staring at Arthur. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, Mordred spoke softly.

“You have magic with you,” was all he said, even when Arthur tried probing for more. Never once did he lay a hand on the boy or raise his voice, knowing it was futile. If he hadn’t cracked under whatever Uther had thrown at him then he certainly wasn’t going to crack under what Arthur delivered.

They waited for nightfall, Arthur becoming increasingly agitated. He needed this to work and hoped that the guards had listened, his father hadn’t changed habits and that they could get away with this crazy plan.

“When we get out, you need to stay with me.” Mordred looked at Arthur with wide eyes, the scared eyes of a child. Though he should hate Arthur, Mordred had placed a small bit of trust in talking to him and Arthur needed him to depend on that. This plan had to work. He’d let Merlin down before and he couldn’t do it again.

They left the tent easily, Arthur having the keys to Mordred’s chains and setting the boy free. Without being told, Mordred slipped his hand into Arthur’s non-sword wielding one, clinging on for dear life.

Arthur knew they wouldn’t be able to get to Merlin’s tree-ring in time and so had to take his horse. It was risky, but it would ensure that they moved quickly through the land until they found Merlin’s forest.

It almost went to plan. They were so close, Arthur’s horse bridled and walking quietly from the stable when a stable hand called out, shouting for the guards and knights. There was no doubt that he’d seen Mordred for the next words bellowed were of sorcerers and evil, fingers pointing straight at Mordred and Arthur.

The only blessing was that it was dark in the stable and Arthur quickly threw Mordred up onto his horse’s back, swinging up after him and spurring his horse on. They had no saddle and so Mordred rode awkwardly, but they had no time to go back and get one. Already Arthur could hear sounds of the knights mustering their cavalry, no doubt thinking Arthur was some sorcerer’s lackey come to rescue Mordred.

They raced through the land, Arthur ducked low over Mordred as his horse galloped. They reached the forest that Arthur knew Merlin would be waiting in, but it was too dense for the horse. They set it loose, Arthur dragging Mordred through the thick forest as the king’s men joined Arthur’s horse, setting out the dogs they’d brought and searching for him.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Arthur promised, squeezing Mordreds hand tighter as they drew closer to Merlin. He could feel the magic by now, the gentle thrum on his skin, and surged on, ignoring the people following him and trying not to notice his father’s shouts in amongst the knights.

The twisted trees looked far more intimidating that the light was gone from within. Merlin stood outside, looking directly at Arthur. He looked different, eyes the only light by the trees. He turned to Arthur and, for a terrible moment, Arthur was reminded solely of Emrys and the vicious magic, not of his Merlin.

“Your kingdom requires a blood sacrifice,” Merlin said, focused only on Arthur. “Mordred was brought here so that you could drain him of his blood as destiny calls for, for you to become king.”

Arthur shook his head, gripping tightly to Mordred.

“No,” he said, “no, Merlin, no!”

Merlin’s eyes were unfocused and he held out an ornamental knife hilt-first to Arthur.

“It’s the only way,” he said, voice low.

The group tracking Arthur and Mordred’s trail were crashing through the forest now, too close for comfort. Arthur knew it wouldn’t be long before they were in range to attack, but he couldn’t just kill Mordred. If his kingdom needed a child to die in order to claim it, then it wasn’t a kingdom he wanted.

Merlin leant forward as Arthur head the whistle in the air. He knew that sound, had been able to recognise it from such an early age, and instantly knew where it would hit. Merlin’s eyes narrowed as Arthur moved into the path of the cross bolt, shielding Mordred from harm and taking two more hits in the process.

Somehow, dying was easier when there wasn’t anything keeping you. It hurt, oh goodness it hurt, but Mordred was safe and Merlin was smiling down at him, his eyes fading to blue and magic swelling on his skin.

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin said, sinking to his knees. Arthur hadn’t even noticed that he’d fallen – that he’d let go of Mordred and push him behind Merlin even – but here he was, lying on a floor littered with leaves with three bolts from his father’s crossbow dug deep into his skin.

“It’ll be okay,” Merlin whispered, cradling Arthur’s head and rocking him gently. Arthur could feel Merlin kissing his hair as chaos exploded around them, Morgana’s screams littering the air when she stepped on the scene, no doubt to find Mordred, and Uther’s shocked, rattling breathing when he discovered who he’d hit.

Then there was nothing else left, only Merlin and his magic. It was warm and tingling as it spread all over Arthur, taking away the pain and all the thoughts, numbing everything and everyone but Merlin.

  
**.**   


Arthur woke in a glade, sunlight streaming on his face. His head lay on Merlin’s lap and a hand was gently cording through his hair. Merlin was humming, eyes closed, but he opened them as soon as Arthur stirred.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, shoulder sinking in relief. He slumped over a moment later, burying Arthur’s head in his chest and holding him tighter. “I’m glad you made it through.”

Though he didn’t know what had happened between Merlin covering him with his magic and waking here, Arthur thought he could guess.

“You healed me?” he asked, shifting ever so slightly. There was no pain, not even from where the crossbow had pierced through him.

“I swore to always protect you,” Merlin said, voice low as he pulled back. His eyes were warm – blue – and he seemed different to before.

“Mordred?” was the next question. Arthur could remember seeing the boy’s shocked eyes as he’d seen Morgana run towards them, but couldn’t recall anything else. Had they survived or had Uther slaughtered them?

“I lied to you,” Merlin said, dodging the question. “The last task wasn’t to collect the mantle Gwenn. The mantle sits in a cupboard inside of my cave, but I needed you to think that it was.”

He didn’t look at Arthur, even though they were still pressed tightly together.

“There was a curse put upon this part of the forest, long ago. It was said that only the Once and Future King, the rightful King, could free the forest from its spell. The third task was to prove you were pure of heart.” Merlin looked at him, sadness and endless wisdom in his eyes.

“I asked you to sacrifice Mordred because I needed to see what kind of man you were. I knew you were the Once and Future King, but destiny changed because of what I did.” Merlin looked up, between the branches of the trees and to the cloudless sky. “It was your blood that was needed to break the curse and you chose to protect Mordred.”

Arthur bowed his head.

“Uther died,” Merlin continued, voice lacking in regret or sadness. Arthur couldn’t blame him – not after all that Uther had done, but he’d once been a father and Arthur would mourn him when he could.

“Morgana and her forces have over powered Camelot, though they do not know what to do with the Kingdom itself. Perhaps Cenred will take it, or Morgause… even Morgana.” Merlin looked at Arthur with a small smile.

“Or maybe you’d like to claim your kingdom yourself,” he said and pushed Arthur off of him, springing up and offering a hand.

“Legends tell of a sword more powerful than any other. I helped you reclaim White-Hilt, but that sword is only one weapon that belongs to you. It will not hold up in battle, but the forest has freed another gift for you.” Merlin took Arthur by the hand until they were in the very centre of the glade.

A stone sat firmly in place and Merlin smiled. It was then that Arthur saw the sword embedded in the stone, a gleaming-gold sword bathed in sunlight.

“Take her up,” Merlin said softly, letting Arthur’s hand fall from his. “Her name is Excalibur, the Sword in the Stone. She is the sword that marks you as king, the one that no one can refute.”

Arthur placed his hand over the hilt and closed his eyes. He thought of Morgana and Morgause, how they’d need him. He thought of Guinevere and her lover, the mysterious knight who was so sick of the war, just like the rest of them. He thought of Camelot with its gleaming turrets and smiling people.

He thought of Merlin.

And the sword pulled free.

  
**.**   



End file.
